


And I'd do anything to make you stay

by theMightyPen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 21:06:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theMightyPen/pseuds/theMightyPen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her eyes prick anew but she squeezes them shut and forces herself not to cry again. “Because it terrifies me when you’re there so long. I know you are still bound to the Children of the Forest, to the Bloodraven, but…it’s a world I do not understand and I am not welcome in. I’m afraid one day you’ll go and you won’t come back.” She says suddenly, lifting her head to look him in the face, look in those wondrously green eyes, “Please, Bran, don’t go where I can’t follow.”</p>
<p>The marriage of Bran Stark and Wylla Manderly, and the one promise he couldn't keep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I'd do anything to make you stay

**Author's Note:**

> For my darlings, the lovely Niamh, Laney, and G; thank you all for your support and putting up with my endless fretting about this story, and thank you for encouraging me to share it with other people than our lovely coven.

Their marriage is not one born of love (at least, not at first). 

Wylla knows this. 

All of the North knows this. 

They whisper of the lost Reed girl, of his time beyond the Wall, of the reason that her lord husband spends all of his free time in the godswood, seemingly asleep beside the great heart tree. 

And Wylla, in the beginning, does not mind these whispers. She knows no more of Brandon Stark than she does Daenerys Targaryen, and she cannot fault him for having loved another, especially not when she does not love him herself. 

She’d been so nervous when she’d first met him; this strange, quiet man who was to be her husband, who had eyes that looked older than the world itself, who spoke quietly but with enough iron in his tone to broke no refusal, and she wonders how she must look to him. She’s older than him, it’s true, but compared to what he has done, what he has survived through, she feels like a child--a silly, giggling, summer child with leaf-colored hair and a too soft smile and a too sharp tongue.

“Give it time,” Fred---her sweet, smart Wynafryd--had cautioned on her last night in White Harbor, “get to know him, let him know you. It need not be so frightening as you imagine.” 

And, after all, Grandpapa had always called her brave and she remembered reading in a book somewhere that if one did the brave thing, bravery itself will often follow. So she tries to get to know her husband, tries to help him in any way she can, which more often than not leaves her in the Great Hall while he steals away to the godswood, communicating with creatures that had always been little more than fodder for nightmares or the stuff of fairy tales (he assures her that White Walkers and the Children of the Forest are very real, and something in those eyes of his makes her believe him beyond the shadow of a doubt.)

She manages the peoples’ complaints, keeps peace among the various lords, maintains contact with the Iron Throne. Grandpapa and Fred would be proud indeed if they could see her, holding in her temper and charming her way into the people of Winterfell’s hearts.

And though they are devoted to their separate realms during the day, at night Lord and Lady Stark always share a bed (though not in the marital sense and Wylla is disappointed; though she’ll never tell him, because she knows he must think that their wedding night must have been disastrous to her, she had liked it, liked being able to crack the shell of greenseer and lord to see the young man beneath, and she wants very much to try it again, but cannot find the words to tell him so, so she stays silent). It’s there she gets to know Bran, not Brandon.

Bran, who once dreamed of being a knight and climbed the highest towers of Winterfell, who had once had three brothers (he was down to one, just Rickon, Jon was only his cousin now, and Robb…well everyone knows what happened to Robb) and two sisters (those he still has, though Sansa’s happily married to Willas Tyrell in the Reach and Arya has sworn to never return to Westeros again), who lost so much so young and owes his life to things that no other person can understand. Bran, who laughs at her jokes and likes to run his hands through her hair, whose eyes crinkle when he smiles (really smiles, not the strained one he puts on whenever the lords harangue him about heirs or the southern border), who surprises her with little tokens of sweetness: a bouquet of winter roses, a new cloak, a dark grey ribbon for her hair. 

And so Wylla finds herself half in love with him and terrified out of her mind that he’s just being kind, just being Bran (because he is so, so kind, so much so that it stuns her sometimes, catching her off guard when she sees him speaking softly to a child who has skinned their knee or to a woman who’s just lost her husband). So she doesn’t tell him and things continue as they have for some time.

But one day (night, really), Wylla rolls over after having a nightmare, expecting to find Bran’s arms open and waiting for her, only to find his side of the bed empty and cold.

“Bran?” She calls, sitting up in bed. The fire is out and the room is dark. 

No response.

She leans back into the pillows; it’s very unlike him to not to be back from the godswood at this hour, but not completely unheard of, so she scolds herself for over-reacting and eventually drifts back to sleep.

But the next morning, with nearly half of the Northern lords awaiting her (and Bran, he had promised to be there today), when she asks one of the guards whether her lord husband has come back inside yet, he shakes his head no.

“Not yet, milady. Cley is with him, I believe. Should I tell him you’re looking for him?”

Wylla sighs. “No. Thank you. Just…send word when he does come back.”

The guard nods, giving her a soft smile.

She knows they pity her and she hates it; they don’t know much she enjoys being able to have a say, being able to let her voice be heard and keeping the peace. They don’t know how lucky she is to have a husband like Bran.

‘Cripple’ they call him. 

The ‘Legless Lord’.

There are worse things for a husband to be than legless, Wylla thinks. Heartless. Brainless. Legs are not so important. They do not determine a man’s ability to govern. Or a man’s ability to love. 

She is still dwelling on that while in the Great Hall, listening to Harrion Karstark’s many complaints against the South, and suddenly she is sick to death of all of them. All of these men that whisper things about Bran, about her, about whether a couple so young is ready and able to rule the North (was Ned Stark not young once? And his father before him? Surely they did not pop from the womb somber and battle hardened?) .

“I came here today to see Lord Stark,” Harrion is saying, “not his green-haired mermaid of a wife.”

“Watch yourself, pup.” Greatjon Umber growls. “That’s Lady Stark you’re talking about.”

“Is she, Umber?” Harrion asks, a rude smirk twisting his features. “A cloak alone does not make a wife.”

The room falls deadly silent; there is no doubt of what Lord Karstark is implying. Wylla has to count to ten in her head before speaking lest she lapse into one of her old bouts of temper. 

“And the armor you wear and the sword you carry does not make you a lord, Harrion Karstark. Nor does your apparent lack of manners.” She says, voice icy (Fred would be so proud). “The Starks do. And rest assured, my lord,” she pauses, narrowing her eyes at him, “I am a Stark, in all ways. You would do well to remember that.”

That shuts his mouth for a while, and Wylla is glad for the distraction of the trivial problems of the people of Wintertown and for the Greatjon’s hulking presence; she’s fond of the old warrior, and he and his family are staunchly loyal to her and Bran, something she’s very grateful whenever the lords come to visit.

Bran’s continued absence worries her, distracting her and keeping her antsy all day long, constantly glancing at the door and at the guards, but there is no news, no note, nothing. Finally, all of the issues that needed discussion are done with and Wylla scarcely waits for the lords to clear the hall before she hurries off.

The same guard is waiting for her and shakes his head no before she can even get a word out. She can feel her shoulders slump a little; Bran’s told her why it’s so important that he go to the godswood so often, of what he’d done beyond the Wall and why it’s so important that he stays aware of what goes on there still, but it worries her. How can he be a man if he’s always tangled in the branches of a tree?

But Wylla knows her husband, and she knows she must remain strong and do exactly what he would do, should their places be reversed, so she carries on as if everything is normal; the lords who have not yet departed are invited to a simple dinner, and Wylla is very, very thankful for the Umbers and the Mormonts, who keep her laughing and can almost make her forget the empty chair to her right.

But Bran never comes to bed that night.

Or the next night.

Or even the night after that.

And Wylla grows more and more distressed, and is beyond grateful when the last lords finally leave and she can fret in peace; she knows that he’s not alone in the godswood, there are at least two guards at least somewhat near him (at least in the physical sense, though his mind may be off in the roots of a weirwood or the mind of a direwolf) and Bran’s not one to fear the cold. She’s had food sent out there each day and night, and none of it hadd been sent back, so she assumes he’s eating or the guards know her well enough to at least make it look like he’s eating, so she continues to wait.

And wait. 

And wait.

Finally, on the fifth night, she gives up trying to read and decides to go to sleep; she’s told the guards to wake her if and when he comes back, no matter the hour.

It seems just a few minutes later when there’s a soft knock at the door, followed by a cautious, “My lady?”

She’s on her feet in an instant, wrapping her cloak around her and hurrying to the door. “Yes?”

“He’s back. Just shaking the snow off and then he’ll be here.” Cley says, smiling at her obvious relief. “Says he’s sorry for worrying you.”

“Yes, well, he can tell me that himself.” She grumbles and he chuckles a little. “Thank you for being his messenger, Cley.”

“It’s no trouble, my lady.” He says, giving her a little bow. 

She goes back to bed, tucking her feet up off the cold floor and waits for the tell-tale sounds of the wheels of Bran’s chair on the stones (Tyrion Lannister and Prince Aegon had been kind enough to send up the blueprints of Doran Martell’s chair, and they’d been able to make Bran a modified version, though in the snow he was still forced to rely on a horse or another man).

She’s just gotten comfortable when the door swings open to reveal Bran.

She wants to yell at him, curse him for scaring her so badly, for not warning her that he would be gone for such a long time.

She wants to cry and curl in his arms and just press her face to his chest so she can hear his heartbeat, proof that he’s here and safe and hers, not the property of the Children of the Forest or the Bloodraven. 

But most of all, she wants to kiss him, because she has missed him so very much, and the three little words she’s been holding in for a month now, at least, are right on the tip of her tongue, threatening to spill out if she’s not careful.

The man himself just smiles softly at her and wheels himself across the room to his side of the bed. “Thank you for the food.” He tells her, lifting himself out of the chair and onto the bed (Wylla gulps a little, looking away; she does so like his arms) “I’m sorry I was in the godswood for as long as I was.”

She turns her face away from him, trying to hide the tears that have suddenly sprung to her eyes. “You could have given me some warning.”

“I had not planned to be gone so long.” He says, and there is sincerity in his voice. “I did not mean to cause you distress, Wylla.”

She whips her face back to his, incredulous. “Did not mean to cause me distress? My husband vanishes into the godswood for five days and I am expected not to be distressed?”

“I had not thought you would even notice me gone.” Bran murmurs.

Wylla stares at him, stunned into silence. The tears are running freely now. “How could I not notice? I have been alone these past nights, nearly freezing to the bone, alone during the day with the lords and the people, trying in vain to ignore their looks, their whispers, their pity…what kind of wife would I be if they noticed your absence and I did not?”

“Wylla…” Bran says, reaching out a hand to her but she pushes it away, suddenly angry.

“No, Bran! You nearly scared me witless this week and now you say you think I would not notice your absence? I notice when you’re gone two hours too long, let alone five days—” Her tears make speech impossible and Bran looks stricken. Wylla tries to compose herself, but to no avail; finally, Bran pulls her into his arms and she sobs her fear and frustration into his shirt while his hands rub soothing circles on her back.

When she’s finally done crying, he asks, “Why such tears?”

Her eyes prick anew but she squeezes them shut and forces herself not to cry again. “Because it terrifies me when you’re there so long. I know you are still bound to the Children of the Forest, to the Bloodraven, but…it’s a world I do not understand and I am not welcome in. I’m afraid one day you’ll go and you won’t come back.” She says suddenly, lifting her head to look him in the face, look in those wondrously green eyes, “Please, Bran, don’t go where I can’t follow.”

He stares at her for a moment, wonder clear on his face. “Wylla…” His hand cups her cheek, thumb stroking over her cheekbone, “why do you worry so? Why worry about me?”

She bites her lip; if ever there were a time to tell him, it would be now. So she squares her shoulders and forces her eyes up to his. “Because I’m in love with you, you daft man.”

Bran’s mouth falls open and his expression would almost be comical if Wylla weren’t so nervous. After a horribly long and silent pause, she moves to pull away, horribly embarrassed, when Bran’s hand moves from her cheek to her neck and he pulls her towards him, pressing their foreheads together.

“I never…I never expected this.” He says quietly, gently, softly; Gods, his voice is shaking, full of some emotion she dares not name. “In my wildest dreams, I never expected to hear those words.”

“Why?” She asks. “Bran, I would have to be an idiot not to love you.”

He chuckles. “And we both know you’re far smarter than I.”

She blushes. “Don’t tease. And I’m sorry if…if my feelings complicate things—“

Wylla is silenced by the look he gives her, all the wisdom and wildness and strangeness of his green eyes holding her silent. 

“Wylla, you’ve given me more than I could ever have hoped in a wife. How many women would have willingly married a cripple? How many women would have left all they knew for a strange man, reputed to be a warg, the second son, the spare who was never meant to be anything more than a knight? How many women would have put up with the inexperienced fumblings of a—”

This time it’s Wylla who cuts him off with a finger to his lips. “None of that, Lord Stark. I’ll not have anyone speaking ill of my husband, least of all himself.”

The look of awe returns from before. “I never expected this, but I was even less prepared for you.”

“Is that a compliment?”

He sighs, seemingly struggling for speech. Wylla lays her hand against his face and Bran leans into her touch, eyes drifting shut. “I was content with the idea of someone just to talk to. I didn’t expect to have a friend. You made me smile and laugh, and you took all these burdens that weren’t yours and bore them without a second though. You reminded me that there was life besides the wirewoods. Gods, Wylla, how could I not love you?”

She gawks at him for a moment, his words sinking in, and then she can’t hold back anymore, not now, not after weeks of dancing around it, so she leans forward and presses her mouth to his. He’s propped up against the headboard so he can stay upright when he wraps his arms around her, and her arms go around his neck and she honestly can’t tell where she ends and he begins and one of Bran’s hands has tangled in her hair and is holding her in place so she just keeps kissing him, trying to pour a month’s worth of feelings into one kiss. 

He tastes like winter and summer all rolled into one, and his lips are soft but his hands are calloused and are currently running up and down her arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake, and Wylla thinks she could stay like this forever, just kissing him, because nothing has ever felt so right in all her life. 

They have to breathe at some point, so they pull back and look at each other; Wylla has tears in her eyes and Bran’s smile is the sweetest and softest it’s ever been and then he’s tugging her back to him and they’re kissing again, just little quick presses of lips.

And it feels like raindrops pattering on her skin, and for the first time since she’s left White Harbor, she doesn’t long for the feel of water or the smell of salt, because they’ve been replaced by the feel of Bran’s skin against hers and the earthy smell of Winterfell in her heart, and that is in and of itself a small miracle. 

Perhaps mermaids can grow legs after all.

She’s pulled from her thoughts by Bran’s laughter—apparently she’d said the last bit aloud, how embarrassing, but then he’s smiling at her, those green eyes alight, and she snuggles closer to him, kissing him yet again to shut him up. 

They don’t do more than sleep that night, for they’re both too exhausted to even consider it, but instead of laying solidly on their own sides of the bed, Wylla is sprawled across Bran’s chest, his hand tangled in her hair, and she can feel his heart beat against her own. 

It feels like home. 

oOo

Within days, the whole of Winterfell senses the change between them. 

Their strange and somber lord is no longer either, and is prone to laughter and teasing. Lady Stark, who was never somber by any means, is even happier, and the servants can hear her laughter at all hours of the day, but never more than when she is in her solar with her husband. 

They often can be found curled in his chair (yes, both of them, Wylla’s legs dangling over the side and Bran’s arms around her waist), reading or talking or sometimes just sitting, silent. 

They both know there are many things expected of them, things that they must be and do, but for a little while, they enjoy the starry newness of being in love.

Bran is as good and kind a husband as he was a friend, (as Wylla knew he would be) though that’s not to say he doesn’t surprise her sometimes with the depths of his mischievousness and wickedness. 

For example, at Rickon’s name day feast, after she’d danced with any and all men who begged it of her (and there were quite a few, and Bran insisted she dance, saying that at least one of them should enjoy the festivities and she’d scowled at him for a good long while, because he knows how much she hates when he belittles himself because of his legs), she plops down beside him, giggling and more than a little tipsy off the mead, leaning over the arm of his chair to kiss him, deep and slow and with more passion than may be appropriate for their current setting. 

She pulls back, expecting a teasing admonishment or a wry smirk, and instead is met by a smoldering look on his face; she’s never seen him look like that before, not even on their wedding night (which they’d yet to repeat, as Bran had insisted on slowly progressing toward it, something that delights and frustrates Wylla in equal measure). Wylla sits back properly in her seat, a little confused by his reaction. She’s so wrapped up in her worries—that she’s startled him, embarrassed him, moved too quickly—that she doesn’t notice his big, warm hand coming towards her until it’s resting on her knee, drawing circles around her knee cap. 

Her eyes flick towards him, but he’s looking out over the Hall, looking as detached from her as possible. His hand, however, tells a different story, and it creeps slowly up her leg until it’s splayed on her upper thigh and Wylla is quite sure her face is the color of the leaves of the weirwood tree.

He’s all but touching her through the thin fabric of her dress, his thumb moving in distressing patterns, making her heart stutter in her chest and her toes curl in her shoes. She’s biting down on her lip and her breaths are coming in little short gasps, and Bran’s silent at her side, the only sign that he knows what he’s doing to her is the almost invisible smile that nearly shows every time she shifts in her seat. It’s maddening, honestly, and until the day she dies, Wylla will never understand how she made it through the rest of the feast without giving them away. 

Somehow they end up back in their room and Bran’s just barely shut the door behind him and turns his chair around so he’s facing her, and that look alone completely shreds any last semblance of sanity and control Wylla possesses. 

Then she’s crossing the room and climbing into his lap, mouth on his, and her fingers curling into his hair. And for once, for once, he doesn’t stop her or tell her to go slow or to pause and think—no, this time, he’s just as desperate as she is, and his arms go around her and one hand splays possessively across the small of her back while the other sinks into her hair. 

She’s never been more thankful for Bran’s nimble fingers than when she feels the stays on her dress start to loosen, and Gods know they’re not going to get anywhere in his chair, so she climbs off his lap just as he finishes untying her dress. 

Bran’s face is torn between lust and confusion, but the confusion drains away as she pushes the dress from her shoulders and sits back on the bed, crooking a finger at him.

He’s wheeled himself over and lifted himself onto the bed next to her faster than she’s ever seen him move, and then she’s all but ripping the shirt off his back, and things move rather quickly after that.

Her Bran may be crippled, but not moving and not feeling are two very different things.

It’s funny, when she thinks back on it after their sweet Ned is born, quiet and smiley and blessed with Bran’s auburn hair rather than her own natural, awful blonde, that such a calm child could be born from such a night.

Then again, when Torrhen is born screaming and red-faced with a tuft of dark Stark hair and her blue eyes, when she can breathe normally again, Wylla has to hold in a giggle, because he’d been made so gently and quietly (they’d been trying not to wake Ned, asleep in the next room over, and she’d had had to beg Bran to even consider trying for another child, but he’d never been able to deny her anything, so it hadn’t taken too much effort, especially when her dress had magically gone missing at some point during the night.)

And Wylla’s never been a devout person, but one night, with a rarely calm and and sleepy Torrhen curled in her lap, Ned sprawled across the floor with his nose buried in a book, and Bran sitting behind her, fingers running through her hair, she thanks every god she’s ever heard of for the life that she’s been given. 

oOo

It’s been ten years since Ned was born when their good luck finally runs out.

Wylla knows something is wrong when she wakes up and Summer is whimpering at the foot of their bed.

“Summer?” She leans up—Bran’s not next to her and neither are either of the boys, though at ten, Ned’s getting too old, and Torrhen does whatever Ned does, Gods they’ve grown so quickly—and pats the direwolf’s head. “What’s wrong?”

She’s never been scared of Summer, because he’s a part of Bran and she’s never seen such a gentle creature in all her days, but she’d be lying if she said that she wasn’t a little alarmed when he suddenly sunk his teeth into the sleeve of her dressing gown and began all but dragging her from the room.

She has just enough sense to grab a dressing gown and throwing it over herself before letting the wolf guide her as he will—something is wrong, she knows it, feels it in her very bones—and she hurries past confused servants and intrigued townspeople.

As soon as she enters the godswood, Summer drops her arm and she breaks into a run.

No.

No no no no.

The great weirwood comes into sight, it’s frowning face looking more menacing than ever, and she just barely stifles a scream when she spots Bran’s legs at the base of the tree.

Bran’s been acting strange for weeks, spending more time in the godswood than he has since Ned’s birth, but she’d thought nothing of it, blaming her paranoia or the fact that Torrhen made peace nigh impossible. 

She knows better, now.

He’s just asleep, thank the Gods, but he’s pale and doesn’t answer when she calls his name or shakes his shoulders.

“Mother?”

She spins around to find Ned and Torrhen, both her sweet boys, looking at her with wide eyes.

“Ned, take your brother back inside.” She says, as softly as she can—it wouldn’t do to frighten them, especially when something may not even be wrong.

Gods, please let nothing be wrong.

And Ned is Bran’s son through and through, calm and steady and easy-going, so he begins to pull Torrhen away, but Torrhen is Wylla’s boy, with all the impetuousness and impatience she’d left behind in her youth, and he pulls away from his brother and sprints towards her instead.

“What’s wrong with Papa? Why isn’t he moving? Mother, wake him up!”

“Torrhen, stop it.” Ned says, and Wylla’s grateful for her sensible son, because she’s verging on the edge of terror herself. “Mother, should I get the maester?”

As if on cue, Bran’s eyes flick open. They’re unfocused and, much to Wylla’s horror, greener than ever.

“Bran?” She asks, taking his face in her hands. “Bran, can you hear me?”

“Wylla.” He breathes out, and his voice is soft, so terrifyingly quiet that her heart almost stops. “I’m sorry.”

“Shh, don’t be foolish.” Wylla says, smoothing his hair back from his face—his skin is clammy and his eyes bright—but she smiles at him all the same, because he loves her smile, he’s told her that a million times, “What do you have to be sorry for?”

“You asked something of me once.” He says, lifting a shaking hand to cup her cheek. “Do you remember?”

“I’ve asked you for many things, selfish wife that I am.” She doesn’t know where she finds the strength to tease, but Bran smiles, just a little, and it’s worth it. “You’ll have to remind me.”

“For children.” He looks past her for a moment, and Ned and Torrhen hurry forward, Ned taking Bran’s free hand and Torrhen burying his face in his father’s chest. “I’m glad I could give you them, at least.”

Wylla’s eyes fill with tears. “Why does this sound like a farewell?”

Bran’s eyes meet hers. “You know why.”

“Where is Papa going?” Torrhen asks, peering up at her and then at Bran. “Can I go too?”

Ned, sweet Ned, bright Ned, brave Ned—Wylla can see the realization dawn on her son’s face, and she aches as he shakes his head. “No, Torrhen, we can’t go with him.”

“But that’s not fair!” Torrhen cries. “Papa, why can’t I come?”

Bran wraps his arms around their youngest and Wylla has to stifle a sob and Ned hides his face in her shoulder.

“You have to stay here and take care of your mother.” Torrhen’s shaking his head and Bran turns to Ned. “Ned, you do too. Promise me.”

“I promise Papa.” Ned says and Wylla can see the man he’s going to become, tall and noble and good, so much like Bran and so much like the Ned Stark before him, and she feels old, so very old and so very sad. 

“I don’t want you to go, Papa.” Torrhen is crying now, his blue Manderly eyes red. “Please stay. Mother will miss you. Ned and me will miss you.”

Bran’s eyes meet Wylla’s. “I didn’t choose this, Torrhen. Someday you’ll understand. I didn’t ask for this life, but it was given to me, and with it, I did my best.” He touches both of their son’s hair. “Do the same, and you will make me the proudest of fathers.”

They both nod and Bran turns his gaze to Wylla. “Wylla.” She moves closer, tears streaming now, and she’s suddenly reminded of the night of when she’d told him she loved him, and suddenly she knows what he’s going to say and she gasps even before the words leave his mouth. “I go now to somewhere you cannot follow.”

She sobs, pressing their foreheads together, and feels Bran’s shallow breaths against her face.

“Please, Bran, please….”

Oh Gods, how can he leave her, leave their children?

How can he leave her to this life on her own?

How can she go on, knowing he’ll never hold her again, never laugh with her, never kiss her, never see their sons grown and married, never see themselves old and grey-haired, surrounded by grandchildren?

He strokes her cheekbone, tears in his eyes as well. “I’m sorry, Wylla. So sorry.”

“I love you.” There’s nothing else she can say.

“As I love you.”

She kisses him and he kisses her, and she and their sons sit beside him until his breathing has finally stopped.

They bury him in the crypt.

Wylla’s heart is there, too.


End file.
